Part 2
Athwart the wan bleak moonlit waste,
With staring eyes, in frantic haste,
With thin locks back-blown by the wind,
A grey gaunt haggard figure raced
And moaned the thing that sped behind.
It followed him, afar or near:
In wrath he curs'd; he shrieked in fear
But ever more it followed him:
Eftsoons he'd stop, and turn, and peer
To front the following phantom grim.
Naught would he see; in vain would list
For wing-like sound or feet that hissed
Like wind-blown snow upon the ice;
The grey thing vanished like a mist,
Or like the smoke of sacrifice:
“Come forth frae out the mirk,” his cry,
“For I maun live or I maun die,
But na, nae mair I'll suffer baith!”
Then, with a shriek, would onward fly
And, swift behind, his following wraith.
Michael the Wizard sped across
The peat and bracken o' the moss:
He heard the muir-wind rise and fall,
And laughed to see the birk-boughs toss
An' the stealthy shadows leap or crawl.
When white St. Monan's Water streamed
For leagues athwart the muir, and gleamed
With phosphorescent marish-fires,
With wild and sudden joy he screamed,
For scarce a mile was Kevan-Byres—
Sweet Kevan-Byres, dear Kevan-Byres,
That oft of old was thronged with squires
And joyous damsels blithe and gay:
Alas, alas for Kevan-Byres
That now is cold and grey.
There in bed on linen sheet
With white soft limbs and love-dreams sweet
Fair Margaret o' the Byres would be:
(Ah, when he'd lain and kissed her feet
Had she not laughed in mockery!)
Aye she had laughed, for what reck'd she
O' a' the powers of Wizardie!
“Win up, win up, guid Michael Scott,
For ye sall ne'er win boon o' me,
By plea, or sword, or spell, God wot!”
Aye, these the words that she had said.
These were the words that as he fled
Michael the Wizard muttered o'er—
“My Margaret, bow your bonnie head,
For ye sall never flout me more!”
Swiftly he raced, with gleaming eyes,
And wild, strange, sobbing, panting cries,
Dire, dire, and fell his frantic mood
Until he gained St. Monan's Rise
Whereon the House of Kevan stood.
There looked he long and fixed his gaze
Upon a room where in past days
His very soul had pled love's boon:
Lit was it now with the wan rays
Flick-flickering from the cloud-girt moon.
“Come forth, May Margaret, come, my heart!
For thou and I nae mair sall part—
Come forth, I bid, though Christ himsel'
My bitter love should strive to thwart,
For I, have a' the powers o' hell!”
What was the white wan thing that came
And lean'd from out the window-frame,
And waved wild arms against the sky?
What was the hollow echoing name,
What was the thin despairing cry?
Adown the long and dusky stair,
And through the courtyard bleak and bare,
And past the gate, and out upon
The whistling, moaning, midnight air—
What is't that Michael Scott has won!
Across the moat it seems to flee,
It speeds across the windy lea,
And through the ruin'd abbey-arch
Now like a mist all waveringly
It stands beneath a lonely larch.
“Come Margaret, my Margaret,
Thou see'st my vows I ne'er forget:
Come win wi'me across the waste—
Lang lang I've wandered cauld and wet,
An' now thy sweet warm lips would taste!”
But as a whirling drift of snow,
Or flying foam the sea-winds blow,
Or smoke swept thin before a gale
It flew across the waste—and oh
'Twas Margaret's voice in that long wail!
Swift as the hound upon the deer,
Swift as the stag when nigh the mere,
Michael the Wizard followed fast—
What though May Margaret fled in fear,
She should be his, be his, at last!—
O'er broom and whin and bracken high,
Where the peat bog lay gloomily,
Where sullenly the bittern boomed
And startled curlews swept the sky,
Until St. Monan's Water loomed!
“The cauld wet water sall na be
The bride-bed for my love and me—
For now upon St. Monan's shore
May Margaret her love sall gie
To him she mocked and jeered of yore!”
Was that a heron in its flight?
Was that a mere-mist wan and white?
What thing from lonely kirkyard grave?
Forlorn it trails athwart the night
With arms that writhe and wring and wave!
Deep down within the mere it sank,
Among the slimy reeds and rank,
And all the leagues-long loch was bare—
One vast, grey, moonlit, lifeless blank
Beneath a silent waste of air.
“O God, O God! her soul it is!
Christ's saved her frae my blasting kiss!
Her soul frae out her body drawn,
The body I maun have for bliss!
O body dead and spirit gaun!”
Hours long o'er Monan's wave he stared;
The fire-flaughts flashed and gleamed and glared,
The death-lights o' the lonely place:
And aye, dead still, he watch'd, till flared
The sunrise on his haggard face.
Full well he knew that with its fires
Loud was the tumult 'mong the squires,
And fierce the bitter pain of all
Where stark and stiff in Kevan-Byres
May Margaret lay beneath her pall.
Then once he laughed, and twice, and thrice,
Though deep within his hollow eyes
Dull-gleamed a light of fell despair.
Around, Earth grew a Paradise
In the sweet golden morning air.
Slowly he rose at last, and swift
One gaunt and frantic arm did lift
And curs'd God in his heav'n o'erhead:
Then, like a lonely cloud adrift,
Far from St. Monan's wave he fled.
With staring eyes, in frantic haste,
With thin locks back-blown by the wind,
A grey gaunt haggard figure raced
And moaned the thing that sped behind.
It followed him, afar or near:
In wrath he curs'd; he shrieked in fear
But ever more it followed him:
Eftsoons he'd stop, and turn, and peer
To front the following phantom grim.
Naught would he see; in vain would list
For wing-like sound or feet that hissed
Like wind-blown snow upon the ice;
The grey thing vanished like a mist,
Or like the smoke of sacrifice:
“Come forth frae out the mirk,” his cry,
“For I maun live or I maun die,
But na, nae mair I'll suffer baith!”
Then, with a shriek, would onward fly
And, swift behind, his following wraith.
Michael the Wizard sped across
The peat and bracken o' the moss:
He heard the muir-wind rise and fall,
And laughed to see the birk-boughs toss
An' the stealthy shadows leap or crawl.
When white St. Monan's Water streamed
For leagues athwart the muir, and gleamed
With phosphorescent marish-fires,
With wild and sudden joy he screamed,
For scarce a mile was Kevan-Byres—
Sweet Kevan-Byres, dear Kevan-Byres,
That oft of old was thronged with squires
And joyous damsels blithe and gay:
Alas, alas for Kevan-Byres
That now is cold and grey.
There in bed on linen sheet
With white soft limbs and love-dreams sweet
Fair Margaret o' the Byres would be:
(Ah, when he'd lain and kissed her feet
Had she not laughed in mockery!)
Aye she had laughed, for what reck'd she
O' a' the powers of Wizardie!
“Win up, win up, guid Michael Scott,
For ye sall ne'er win boon o' me,
By plea, or sword, or spell, God wot!”
Aye, these the words that she had said.
These were the words that as he fled
Michael the Wizard muttered o'er—
“My Margaret, bow your bonnie head,
For ye sall never flout me more!”
Swiftly he raced, with gleaming eyes,
And wild, strange, sobbing, panting cries,
Dire, dire, and fell his frantic mood
Until he gained St. Monan's Rise
Whereon the House of Kevan stood.
There looked he long and fixed his gaze
Upon a room where in past days
His very soul had pled love's boon:
Lit was it now with the wan rays
Flick-flickering from the cloud-girt moon.
“Come forth, May Margaret, come, my heart!
For thou and I nae mair sall part—
Come forth, I bid, though Christ himsel'
My bitter love should strive to thwart,
For I, have a' the powers o' hell!”
What was the white wan thing that came
And lean'd from out the window-frame,
And waved wild arms against the sky?
What was the hollow echoing name,
What was the thin despairing cry?
Adown the long and dusky stair,
And through the courtyard bleak and bare,
And past the gate, and out upon
The whistling, moaning, midnight air—
What is't that Michael Scott has won!
Across the moat it seems to flee,
It speeds across the windy lea,
And through the ruin'd abbey-arch
Now like a mist all waveringly
It stands beneath a lonely larch.
“Come Margaret, my Margaret,
Thou see'st my vows I ne'er forget:
Come win wi'me across the waste—
Lang lang I've wandered cauld and wet,
An' now thy sweet warm lips would taste!”
But as a whirling drift of snow,
Or flying foam the sea-winds blow,
Or smoke swept thin before a gale
It flew across the waste—and oh
'Twas Margaret's voice in that long wail!
Swift as the hound upon the deer,
Swift as the stag when nigh the mere,
Michael the Wizard followed fast—
What though May Margaret fled in fear,
She should be his, be his, at last!—
O'er broom and whin and bracken high,
Where the peat bog lay gloomily,
Where sullenly the bittern boomed
And startled curlews swept the sky,
Until St. Monan's Water loomed!
“The cauld wet water sall na be
The bride-bed for my love and me—
For now upon St. Monan's shore
May Margaret her love sall gie
To him she mocked and jeered of yore!”
Was that a heron in its flight?
Was that a mere-mist wan and white?
What thing from lonely kirkyard grave?
Forlorn it trails athwart the night
With arms that writhe and wring and wave!
Deep down within the mere it sank,
Among the slimy reeds and rank,
And all the leagues-long loch was bare—
One vast, grey, moonlit, lifeless blank
Beneath a silent waste of air.
“O God, O God! her soul it is!
Christ's saved her frae my blasting kiss!
Her soul frae out her body drawn,
The body I maun have for bliss!
O body dead and spirit gaun!”
Hours long o'er Monan's wave he stared;
The fire-flaughts flashed and gleamed and glared,
The death-lights o' the lonely place:
And aye, dead still, he watch'd, till flared
The sunrise on his haggard face.
Full well he knew that with its fires
Loud was the tumult 'mong the squires,
And fierce the bitter pain of all
Where stark and stiff in Kevan-Byres
May Margaret lay beneath her pall.
Then once he laughed, and twice, and thrice,
Though deep within his hollow eyes
Dull-gleamed a light of fell despair.
Around, Earth grew a Paradise
In the sweet golden morning air.
Slowly he rose at last, and swift
One gaunt and frantic arm did lift
And curs'd God in his heav'n o'erhead:
Then, like a lonely cloud adrift,
Far from St. Monan's wave he fled.
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